


The Night of the Two Thieves

by doctornerdington



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Porn, Bad Decisions, Excessive Drinking, M/M, OMG so much pining, One Night Stands, Pining, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:46:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8298166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctornerdington/pseuds/doctornerdington
Summary: John is drinking. Drinking and pining. Drinking and pining and making questionable life choices.





	

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE! This fic now has a happy little follow-up for those who prefer their angst with a fluffy chaser: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10753731/chapters/23844207

_We crucify ourselves between two thieves: regret for yesterday and fear of tomorrow._

_\-- Fulton Oursler_

 * * * * *

John was two hours and four pints into the evening when a tall shadow fell across his seat at the bar. He looked up blearily. Blinked. Took a long sip and looked again.

“Fancy meeting you here,” the man – Tom Something, what had it been? – slurred, leaning heavily against the bar before collapsing onto the stool beside him.

John grunted. Not in the mood for company. Not in the mood for tall, beautiful idiots with razor cheekbones and dark curls. He shouldn’t have come out to this fucking bloody pub. Not in the mood for bloody unattainable men.

Tom, unsurprisingly, didn’t take the hint.

“Woman troubles?” he asked.

John took a breath and readied himself to tell the bastard off, but found himself brought up short by the familiarity of his wiry frame, his silhouette.

The eyes were wrong, though. Brown. Dull. Soft, when they should have been bright and cutting and devastating. Why were they brown? Surely that wasn’t --.

John grunted again, this time in reluctant acquiescence. He didn’t want to think about the Mary fiasco. “Woman troubles” was a ridiculous understatement of his current set of problems, but then again – it was probably as accurate as anything else.

“Troubles, anyway,” he said, thinking daggers at Tom. _Meat daggers_. He snickered drunkenly into his pint.

Tom took this as the invitation that it certainly wasn’t. He sighed deeply. “Oh Christ. Me too, mate. Me too. Bloody women.”

He motioned the barkeep for another round. “She’s thrown me over, mate. Best thing I’ve ever had, and it’s gone. _She’s_ gone. Too good for me by far, I own it. Beautiful, clever, amazing in bed – you have no _idea_ the things she’s into. Jesus!” He paused for a moment, in silent remembrance. “I thought I should ask her to –. Well. I was wrong, wasn’t I? She wasn’t ever really interested. Not for the long haul.” 

He looked so morose that John, despite himself, reached over to give Tom’s shoulder a squeeze.  

“She’s a good woman,” he said, silently congratulating Molly on her good sense. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you.” He wasn’t sorry. Molly could do a hell of a lot better, in his opinion.

Tom shrugged, and took a long pull on his pint.

“Nothing for it,” he said finally.

“Nope,” John agreed, resolutely not thinking about his own life. “Nothing for it.”

They sat in silence, drinking hard. John motioned for another round.

“What about you, then?” Tom asked, eventually. “Marriage not the blissful dream you expected?”

“Fuck off,” John returned fervently. He was still a soldier when it counted. “None of your business.”

“Sorry! Oh jesus, I’m sorry,” Tom stammered. “I just thought –“

“You thought wrong.”

John returned to his pint. Downed the remainder in one and motioned to the barkeep for another. He was getting woozy. Not quite woozy enough.

Tom sat silently for awhile, but he fidgeted and squirmed and coughed so pointedly that John, finally, let out an exasperated sigh. “So,” he said helplessly.

“So.”

“Just here to... drink it off?” he asked. Anything to break the silence. He was not good at these sorts of things.

“Er. Yeah, I suppose.” Tom raised his pint to his lips and took a small sip, looking at John the whole time. “Drink it off; maybe pull.” He looked away. “Rebound. You know.” His knee – thin, suited – knocked against John’s under the bar.

John grunted. He took a drink. A terrible idea – a very bad, _very_ bad idea – began to form in his mind. He drank some more to see if it would help.

“Rebound,” he said after a while. “I’ve never done that before.”

“No?” Tom asked. John drew a breath.  Tom’s knee remained, pressed warm against his. “Not – before this?”

“Nope.” The terminal plosive popped on his lips. He watched Tom watch him. He was very pretty. Not near as pretty as –. John leaned over. “How’s it work, then?”

Tom put his hand on John’s thigh. John closed his eyes and resolutely did not think of other hands. Long fingers. Sensitive. Clever. Strong. He hadn’t been with a man in so long. Oh, this _was_ a bad idea.

“Just one night,” Tom said. He drew closer. His voice was nothing but a breath in John’s ear. “One night, no strings. Work the women out of our systems, yeah?”

John opened his eyes. That was... that was essentially the opposite of what he was doing, and he knew it. This wasn’t remotely about Mary. Tom licked his lips: his pretty, bowed lips. He’d always wondered what lips like that would --.

“I thought you were straight,” John said, with the very last thread of his sobriety.

Now it was Tom’s turn to snicker. “Well you’re the only one on the planet, then. _Jesus,_ John.”

Somehow, it was that – that familiar attitude of amused dismay, that fond mockery that swept away the last of John’s scruples.

He grabbed for Tom’s coat and pulled him in for an exploratory kiss. The lapels were wrong: too wide, and coarse, not wool. Cheap. Not --. He didn’t care. Couldn’t care anymore. Whether this was right or wrong (and it was definitely not right); if he was going to hell he would damn well enjoy himself along the way.

Then Tom reached around and grabbed him by the nape of the neck, and their kiss deepened into something open-mouthed. Wet and filthy.

John closed his eyes. Moaned into it. His hands were tangled in soft curls. He leaned up to lick deeper, harder. His head spun. _God_. It was so—.

Minutes, hours passed, John didn’t know. “Gentlemen!” The barkeeper harrumphed around them. “Let’s take this somewhere private, shall we?”

John realized his left hand was down the back of Tom’s trousers, and Tom’s tongue was halfway down his throat.

He pulled back, then dove in to nip at the juncture of jaw and throat. Christ, he’d always wanted to –.

Tom chuckled under him. “Back to yours, yeah?”

John groaned his assent. “I want to fuck you,” he breathed in his ear, inhibitions evaporated in a cloud of booze and lust. His eyes were closed. He was so drunk he could almost forget that it wasn’t Sh – he could almost forget. “Please let me fuck you.”

“Jesus!” Tom’s hands tightened on his hips.

“Please,” John begged. He had no pride anymore. No dignity. Only need. He sucked a bruise into Sh--. Into Tom’s throat; thrilled to the writhing under him. Ignored the pointed throat-clearing of the man behind the bar.

“Yes,” that low voice breathed. “Yes, alright. Take me home with you.”

John nodded tightly. There was no one left at his to mind. “Let’s go, then.”

In the cab, they sat pressed close together. Ten minutes in, Tom put his hand high on John’s thigh. John’s mind was on other cab rides; other companions. He shook his head as if to clear it. It didn’t work.

Another few minutes, and John took Tom’s hand and moved it to his groin, pressing up into it, hard, and stifling a groan. John let his head loll back against the headrest. “Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck, Sh—.”

 “Oh my god,” Tom ground out beside him under his breath, squeezing and pressing in. “God, jesus.” He began to knead.

John groaned. Focused on stilling his hips; calming himself. Patience, he told himself. Patience, now.

Tom bit his earlobe. “Gonna put it in me?” he asked under his breath. “Slick me up? Open me wide up on your fingers, then split me open on your cock? God, I want it. I’m done with --. Done with women.”

John growled, grabbed his lower lip between his teeth; bit down hard. Tom shuddered against him.

John nuzzled into pale neck, into dark curls. He breathed in deeply. The smell was bright. Trendy. Wrong. But then Tom was grabbing his hand, rubbing it up under the wannabe-posh coat, over the placket of his trousers. John could feel the hard length of him pressing up into his hand, hot and eager, and Tom’s voice was in his ear, begging. “Fuck me. Want you to fuck me so hard. God. Can’t wait to feel you in me.”

John squeezed, and Tom all but whined under his hand.

“All right, lads,” the cabbie said gruffly. “Hands to yourselves. Just a few more blocks.”

John squeezed again, under the cover of Tom’s knock-off coat. Sherlock shivered under his hand. Tom. Tom shivered.

John could feel the outline of his cock hard in his hand. His careful fingers traced the outline, distinct and burning hot, twitching and hardening even more in his hand. He wasn’t thinking of Tom.

Tom bit his lip. “John,” he said, his voice tremulous with warning.

John let his fingers slip around the head, tracing the edges with agonizing precision.

“ _John_.” The voice was urgent now. The voice didn’t want him to stop; John was sure of it. Maybe the voice had always wanted him. Maybe he could believe it, just tonight.

The cab pulled to a stop outside John’s nondescripts block of flats. “Out you go, then. Fourteen pounds,” the cabbie’s voice broke in. John stumbled out of the cab, throwing a handful of bills behind him: drunk, hard, vaguely ashamed.

“Have a good night,” the cabbie called out after them, laughing. John didn’t have a second to respond; in an instant, Tom was pressing him up against the wall of the building, tall, thin and demanding. Almost perfect as his long coat swept around them. John groaned again, hands reaching and tangling in curls, lips seeking lips.

He thought, for less than a minute, about how he might regret this in the morning, but Tom was so tall, grinding into him, and John could feel him, hard and hot, and he didn’t care. He didn’t care anymore.

Sherlock wanted him. That was all he needed, all that mattered.

He grabbed his hand and pulled him inside, through the door and up the stairs to his flat, fumbling with the lock. Sherlock – _Tom_ – took the keys from him and fitted them carefully into the lock, guiding John back through the door.

John didn’t bother with the lights. Didn’t even bother to shut the door behind them. Pushed Sh --. Pushed Tom into the back bedroom and pulled off his shirt, mouthing at his neck, his chest, everywhere he could reach. He was rail-thin and pale; he was nearly right, John thought, pinching at a rosy nipple. This was nearly right.

Tom moaned, and if his voice jarred a bit, wasn’t quite the mahogany timbre John longed for, it was close. It was as close as he was ever going to get.

“Hands and knees,” John said roughly, yanking at Tom’s trousers and pulling off his own clothes. He still had the voice of a commander; still expected to be obeyed. Tom did not disappoint, kicking off his trousers and pants and scrambling up onto the bed. He sank down on his elbows, presenting his arse up to John as a gift, round and ivory and firm. John’s mouth watered at the sight: ivory flesh positioned just so on his bed in the moonlight; dark curls pressed down onto the bed, face turned to the wall. It could have been --.

“Fuck,” John swore softly, running his hand over the firm flesh. He was far too drunk for foreplay. “Ýou’re so pretty. Just like I knew you’d be.”

The man on the bed let out a breathy sigh, turned his head to say something, but John leaned down, bit his left buttock hard. Whatever he had been about to say turned into a stuttered groan. Better.

John grabbed a bottle of lube from his bedside table, and a handful of condoms, and threw them on the coverlet. He knelt back and began to massage those trembling buttocks, stroking up and down, over and over, with firm, demanding strokes until he felt the man under him relax into it. Then, with both hands, he parted them, nipping again at the rosy skin.

“Oh god,” Sherlock groaned. His voice was wrong. “I want you – now. _Please_.”

 John grunted and slicked up a finger, teasing the sensitive skin around the hole for a moment before slipping inside – just a little.

Sherlock bucked up under him. “More.”

John gave him more. He would always give him more. One finger in. Then two. God, he was so hard. This was so _hot_.

Sherlock was panting and straining back against him, bucking wildly, close to begging. “Your cock, John. Come on. _Come on_!”

John chuckled. “Demanding prat,” he said fondly, withdrawing his fingers and giving that arse a playful swat.  

Sherlock whined. “Please, oh god, please, I need it.”

The _begging_. Christ. John growled, his amusement forgotten. His cock throbbed in his hand as he gave it a stroke. He tore open a condom and rolled it quickly on, then lined himself up behind Sherlock’s prone, beautiful body. He took a deep breath, then another, and pushed the head just inside, watching his own flesh enter – enter Sherlock.  He cried out at the unbearable sweetness of it, then pushed all the way in, Sherlock gasping beneath him, reaching around to pull him deeper, closer.

John collapsed against his back, thrusting in quick, shallow bursts. He opened his mouth and bit at Sherlock’s shoulder, hard. Tasted salt and sex. Sherlock shuddered.

Sherlock –the man – the – the man. _Tom_ turned his head to kiss him. John jerked away, palming his head back into the mattress, pulling almost all the way out and thrusting in again, brutally. Under him, the man began to wail in rhythm with his thrusts.

John didn’t want to see his face. Wanted to believe this could be – that it could be.

Fuck.

Sherlock thrust back. Tight hot tight; thrusting back, a grunt and a bitten-off moan. Sherlock pushed back against him – pushed hard.

“God. Yes. _So good_. Fuck me harder.”

John did. And finally, covered with sweat and panting with exhaustion, the man beneath him reached under himself to stroke his own cock.

“That’s right,” John panted, burning under his skin. “Come for me, now. Fucking bring me off with it.”

Another few thrusts, and Sherlock went rigid, choking out a curse. John was so close – so close – that the fluttering contractions of Sherlock’s orgasm around his cock were enough to tip him over the edge into his own bliss. He cried out with his final thrust, burying himself as deep as he could, coming in pulse after pulse of shuddering pleasure. “Oh, my love, my love.” He didn’t realize he was speaking aloud. He didn’t know that his face was wet.

When John came back to himself, the room was spinning. He was breathing in gasps, and Tom was tumbled on his back, eyes closed, catching his breath. John groaned and rolled away. Buried his face in the sheets, surreptitiously drying his eyes. God, he had to get himself together.

He felt Tom shift beside him. “Jesus.”

John huffed a forced laugh. “Yeah. Sorry. That was, um.”

“That was better than I expected,” Tom said, and John didn’t know whether to be offended or amused. He settled for rolling his eyes, but the room tilted around him and had to concentrate, for a minute, on not being sick.

He groaned and flopped back on his side. “I am never drinking that much again. Christ, I’m going to pay for this tomorrow.”

Tom arched an eyebrow. “I won’t be sitting right for a week.”

John winced. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“I’m not. Fucking hell.”

They lay together until their breathing was even again, and their skin had cooled.

 “Why me, then?” John asked abruptly, still drunk enough that his usual filter had abandoned him. He didn’t want to _like_ Tom, but there was something affable about him, something appealing that had nothing to do with -- well. “You’re a fit bloke. You could have had anyone in that pub tonight. Why the hell pull your ex’s disastrous friend? I’d have thought you’d run a mile.”

Tom smiled, his soft eyes sad in the dim light that filtered in from the street. “John, please. I know it’s not me you wanted. I know it’s just because I look like _him_. It was the same for Molls, in the beginning. I know I’m not – I’m not clever enough. I’m not interesting. I was just curious to see what his life is like, you know? To have a little taste of what _he_ has.”

John was silent. He felt like such a _shit_. Worse than that, even – a transparent shit.  

Tom kissed his shoulder. “I hope he appreciates what he’s got.”

John swallowed queasily. “I think it’s pretty safe to say he doesn’t want what he’s got.”

“Ah.”

“Yes. Ah.”

“I’m sorry,” Tom said quietly. And jesus, if Molly deserved better than Tom, Tom certainly deserved better than John.

“Nothing for it,” John said with a wry smile.

“I suppose not.”

After a few minutes, Tom got up and rummaged around in his discarded clothes. Found a cigarette.

“Mind?” he asked.

“Mmm, no. Actually, give me one, will you?” In for a penny, in for a pound.

Tom raised an eyebrow, but lit another and passed it to John.

“Listen,” Tom said finally. “You’re not going to tell Molls about this, are you? She’s frightening when she’s angry.”

“You have absolutely no worries there, mate” John said. “And you won’t mention it to, er, anyone?”

Tom mimed a zipper closing over his lips. His eyes were impossibly kind – how had John taken that for cluelessness? How had he not noticed? John looked away.

“Ta.”  

They smoked in silence, ashing into a dirty mug on the bedside table and listening to the traffic in the street outside. Soon a light rain shower began to fall, pattering against the window in little gusts and splashing in where the window was open just a crack. Tom sighed. In a little while, he’d get up and dress, order a cab and be gone. John would probably never see him again.

Everything, John thought, _everything_ about the night was wrong. He closed his eyes and wondered if he should even bother hoping that tomorrow could be different.

**Author's Note:**

> This little fic was inspired by hiddenlacuna and sweeter-than-cynicism over on Tumblr: the first people I've ever seen ship John/Tom. I do now, too. Genius! Dedicated to them both. <3 <3 <3
> 
> NOW WITH HAPPY-ENDING FOLLOW UP! http://archiveofourown.org/works/10753731/chapters/23844207

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Song of the Two Thieves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10755282) by [trickybonmot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickybonmot/pseuds/trickybonmot)




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